Confession
by Jaxson The Great
Summary: You hear a lot of stories, but you don't hear them all.


I always heard stories about them, the ones everyone talked about. The messed-up mercenaries. The teams full of crazies and psychos, the anorexic Spies and the stoner Demomen, the sadistic Medics and the schitzophrenic Soldiers. I always thought we were the lucky ones, that our team didn't have anything like that.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I just-I didn't know who else to come to, y'know, I just thought, like, with all the rumors-"

I guess I was just being naive. No one on our team was _blatantly _crazy, at least, and they kept all their kinks and whatnot to themselves, for the most part. We never got rip-roaringly drunk, all nine sheets to the wind, and we were never so intoxicated that we forgot ourselves and overshared about our lives or anything. I thought we were normal, or that the stories were just that.

"What rumors?"

"Y'know, the ones. About you. And... and them."

"'Them' who?"

"The ones in your... in your van, there. You know. The rumors. About what you are and... and what you do. With them. In your van."

He came to me one evening, as I was settling down to appreciate the specrtum of colors the sunset threw up, like great paint cans strewn across the sky's canvas. All oranges and pinks and reds and yellows, fading away towards the edges into blues and blacks and greens. It always made me think about what we were doing, the war, how insignifigant it all was. Of course, it wasn't that hard to remember a thing like that, considering how we were all sacrificing our sad little lives hundreds of times each day, and all for a pile of gravel or a secret recipie, whatever was in that blasted briefcase. Watching the sun set, it just helped me realize exactly how meaningless my existance was.

He was wringing his hands, shoulders hitched up past his ears like a demented marionette doll. He had dark circles under his eyes that made him look about forty years older in the fading daylight, and, most alarming of all, he looked exhausted.

I may not have put too much stock in the stories about messed up men, but I sure did, as everyone did, believe the ones about how Scouts never, ever slow down. How could I not believe it? Having one on my own team proved it; he was a bratty, obnoxious, self-centered little twerp who did everything from tying his shoes in the morning to falling asleep at night on the double. But when he came to me, all haggard and twitchy, he was also nearly asleep on his feet, which grabbed my attention much faster than his shaking voice and halting words.

"I mean, I thought if there was anyone around here that might understand it would be you, I mean, you know, on account'a the rumors. Th' other Scout, maybe, but maybe not, and, y'know, I just don't really wanna take that chance, I mean I couldn't trust a guy like him not to rat me out or whatever, but you, you're like, a real man's man, right? You would never sell out your pal, would'ja?"

Even in this state he managed to be annoying, the way he could dance around a subject like a spider someone was trying to wash down a drain. Sometimes it was enough to make me wish I were a violent man, so I could grab his shoulders and shake him until he just spat it out; I was too old to play word games with him. As it was, though, I just sighed and made calming motions, reminding him to take a breath now and then.

"Scout," I said, "what rumors are you talking about?"

He took a deep breath then, backlit against the brilliant sunrise, colors stretching far over our heads, and stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, face red. Through the fabric I could see him balling his fists, and he bit his lip and looked away, backing away a foot or two too, before he spoke.

"The ones about how you... how y'like, rape people in your van thing, how people say you're a crazy kidnapper, and you drive around an', like, lure kids in with candy and shit, make 'em help you find your lost dog, like in the movies?"

Oh. Those rumors.

"Are you asking if they're true? Because you know as well as me they're not."

"Yeah, I know, but..." he scratched his head a lot. A lot. And shook himself out like a wet dog, and backed even farther away. "I guess I'm just askin', like, I mean, with people saying stuff like that about you, I mean do you ever get, like, curious? Like, I know they're not true, and _you _know they're not true, and _they _probably know they're not true either but, like, what if they were, y'know, true?"

It was darkening with every passing second, but it wasn't cold. The tall rocks that surrounded the bases held heat like cast-iron, but the wind that kicked up _was_ cold, and swirled the dust around us as I stood staring at him, this young man, who, until about fifteen seconds ago, I had assumed to be perfectly normal, as far as Scouts go.

"I'm not a rapist," I said, as flatly and convincingly as I could manage. "That's just something the civs cooked up, like about you and pancakes. If this is your idea of a joke-"

"No, I-" he dropped his head into his hands, and there was dried blood streaked across his forearms. "I need your help," he whispered.

The colors in the sky were fading now, and my patience grew thin. "Scout, damn it, at least _try_ to stick to one topic at a time. I don't have the energy to try to keep up with you, especially at this time of night. Now, pretend I have no idea what on earth you're talking about, and explain it to me."

He dropped to his knees. He was standing before, but now he was down, elbows on the ground. His hat was off, and his dirt-colored hair trailed in the dirt-colored dust at my feet. I was standing before, too, but now I sat, right there on the ground beside him.

"I've tried so hard to ignore it," he said slowly, a little muffled under his own weight. He took a few shaking breaths before continuing, "We go into town on our days off, and you know that schoolyard where sometimes Soldier and Medic play basketball? The kids there, they go to that school, sometimes you can see them playing there in the mornings, an' early afternoon, like. And I can't help it... I mean, they look so... they're so young, oh, god, they're so goddamn _young._"

I remained motionless, and he remained on the ground, locking his hands behind his head and pressing his forehead into the ground, eyes shut tight.

"How many men have you killed, since you came here?" he asked.

"Too many."

"I just can't stop thinking about it, how they're so young, and they don't know shit, they don't know _shit _about the world. They think they're gonna grow up to be astronauts, but y'know what? They're not even going to make it to college, I bet you anything. They believe in fucking _Santa Claus, _for crying out loud, and I... I know how to kill a man with a fucking piece of toast, alright? I mean I don't-and they're so damn small, like they would break so easily, right? Here, you gotta shoot a man in the head like ten times before he even thinks about dyin', but they could, like, _fall down_ and get real hurt, you know? I mean I don't-I can't-"

And then he started sobbing, and his whole body was tense, and his voice shook more than ever, "You hear about the other guys, right, like they say when they first find out they're into guys n' shit, they try to ignore it, try to pretend they're normal, and I never... I mean it's _always there, _I can't ignore it because every time I see a doll, or a toy, or... like, Medic's fuckin' PJ's look like they belong on a nine year old, with the feet and everything... It's _everywhere _and I can't even... there's no avoiding it because, I mean, I mean there's nothing else, everyone has their things but this is my only thing and I think about it _all the time _and, shit, you gotta help me, I'm so scared I'm gonna hurt someone, I think about it sometimes, like, how easy it would be to, like, kidnap a kid on their way to school or whatever... _oh god _I'm a-I mean to even _think _about that-"

He was quiet then for a very long time, his fingers digging long furrows in the dirt. The only sound was the crickets and his frustrated breathing.

"Scout," I said at last, very quietly. Across the long blackness I could just make out the sounds of our rival team celeberating that day's win. "Are you a pedophile?"

He sat up then and pulled at his hair and pushed at his face.

"It was all fine when I was a kid," he said, dragging his nails across his neck. "I had crushes like any other kid, right? But then I got older and... I always went for the blonde ones, right? The blonde ones with blonde eyelashes, and freckles, and big, big eyes, green eyes... I'm a monster, right?" he laughed a dry, unpleasant laugh that sounded more like a sob.

"Only if you act on it," I said, and after a long moment, he nodded.

We watched the stars for a while after that, and he told me he was sorry for being such a baby, he laughed at that, baby, and begged me not to tell anyone, and said he felt a lot better just having told someone. I said I understood.

A week later he shot himself through the eye four miles from the base, beyond the marker that seperated the civilians from the immortal.

After that, I always believed the stories they told, but, funnily enough, I never did hear about a pedophillic Scout. If there were any others, I always kept my ear out for them. Maybe, I told myself, this one I could save.

Of course, there is no "safe" in an empty war.


End file.
